


noapte

by itsmylifekay



Series: Pahar [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Steve, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stars are delicately twinkling overhead, set into the velvet sky without a cloud in sight. It’s a rare night, beautiful and breathtaking and Steve’s fingers itch to capture it in charcoal and metal, wants to share this moment with anyone he can, with anyone who will bother to look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	noapte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firewings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewings/gifts).



> Happy New Year everyone! I know I haven't written this series in a while, but I hope it's up to snuff. Thanks to firewings for the idea, sorry it took so long.

 

The stars are delicately twinkling overhead, set into the velvet sky without a cloud in sight. It’s a rare night, beautiful and breathtaking and Steve’s fingers itch to capture it in charcoal and metal, wants to share this moment with anyone he can, with anyone who will bother to look. The grass is slightly damp beneath him, blades scratching at his skin and through his clothes, but he can’t be bothered by it when the entire universe is unfurled before him, like a canvas stretching on without limit, without fault.

There’s a soft yawn next to him and he turns his head, shifts his gaze from the sky to the ground where Bucky is sprawled by his side. He gets a near-silent laugh for his efforts and Bucky’s sheepish grin. Ruffled brown hair and piercing blue eyes, Bucky is a work of art himself. His white v-neck is slightly askew, revealing the sharp slant of a collarbone, hem rucked up just enough that a sliver of skin above his waistband is exposed to the cooling night air. Steve’s fingers itch in an entirely different way, wanting to capture this moment, too, but wanting to reach out and touch as well. He fixes Bucky with a look and turns back to the sky instead, bites back a smile at the way Bucky knocks their feet together. White converse and scuffed up boots.

 _Beautiful,_ he thinks to himself. _Eo noapte feerică._

~*~

“Look, all I’m saying is-”

“All you’re _saying,_ ” Bucky interrupts. “Is that you’re grumpy from staying up too late.” Bucky grins at Steve’s pinched expression, walking backwards with a twinkle in his eye that has Steve shaking his head to cover up the fondness threatening to creep into his own.

“I’m not grumpy,” Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose then rubbing slightly at his forehead. “I’m frustrated. There’s a difference.”

“Oh really?” Bucky hums. “What’re you frustrated about then?”

Steve turns to look at him from the corner of his eye, adjusting the bag on his shoulder before turning to narrow his eyes at him fully. “Right now? I’ll give you a hint…” He comes to a stop and puts a finger to Bucky’s surprised lips, frozen partially open. Bucky blinks at him once, twice, before Steve pulls away and starts walking again, trying to work through his own aggravated thoughts to see if he really is grumpy, as Bucky’s said. It’s possible Steve’s forgotten to eat for most of the day and he _does_ tend to get irritable when he’s hungry…

Bucky appears at his side a moment later, serious look on his face as he studies Steve’s profile. “You getting a migraine, Steve?” he asks. He’s so earnest that Steve actually feels a little bad, bites his lip before sighing and staring up at the sky, begging it to spare him from the nagging he knows he’s about to get.

“No,” he says, continuing on before Bucky can barrel on with more questions of if he’s _sure, because he has Steve’s medicine and they can stop at a water fountain-_ “I might’ve forgotten to eat lunch.”

Now it’s Bucky’s eyes that narrow, exasperation flickering across his features before resolving into something Steve vaguely knows to fear. He won’t say anything now, won’t try to test or push Steve when he knows all it will get him is stubborn resistance, but he’ll wait. Bucky is dangerously patient when it comes to things like this, will sit poised and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Steve would be more worried about Bucky’s predatory tendencies if they didn’t all revolve around making sure Steve was fed and healthy and generally okay.

It comes that night at the dining hall, Bucky not-so-stealthily slipping extra food onto Steve’s tray, convincing him to try some of his own food and stealing smaller bites of Steve’s, it’s a tactic he uses fairly regularly and Steve’s come to accept it without much fuss. He does, however, draw the line at dessert. Because his vanilla yogurt is a gift from above and Bucky’s chocolate brownie is a heart attack waiting to happen. Not that Bucky doesn’t just roll his eyes when Steve says as much.

“Your taste buds are broken,” he says, sucking chocolate from his thumb and licking more from his bottom lip. “Chocolate is delicious.”

“Dark chocolate, sure. Anything else is too sweet.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Blasphemy.”

“Your face is blasphemy,” Steve grumbles, slumping down in his seat to eat his yogurt in peace, kicking Bucky in the shins underneath the table. A partial glare in response, then Bucky’s moving on, turning back to their friends and diving right back into the conversation like he’d never left.

He’s gifted like that, friendly and open and disarming. _Charming_ , is one word Steve supposes he could use. There’s a reason Bucky makes friends with nearly everyone he meets and Steve is always amazed by it, just a bit too awkward and standoffish himself to form the easy connections Bucky does. Bucky claims it fits his tortured artist look and Steve always flicks him off for that, cuts him off before he can start saying sappy things like how it’s the intentions that matter and Steve’s heart is made of gold. Because when Bucky starts saying things like that, Steve always feels himself get weak at the knees.

Years later and you’d think he’d have gotten over Bucky’s sweet-talk, but he hasn’t. Not at all. It’s one of the many things about Bucky that still affects him more than he ever thought it would, more than it has any right to.

He sucks the last bit of yogurt from his spoon then piles the rest of his trash onto the tray, reaching across the table for Bucky’s with the plastic handle still sticking out from between his teeth. He dumps their trash and stacks their trays, parting with his spoon at the trashcan with a reluctant click of his teeth. Bucky grins at him when he gets back and there’s a fondness in his eyes that has Steve’s ears turning pink at the tips. Ignoring the urge to do something stupid like lean across the table and kiss him, Steve buries his head in his arms instead, feels the slight pinch of metal against his skin from the piercings in his ears.

The table is probably disgusting so Steve makes sure to keep his cheek hovering a careful centimeter above its surface, fringe flopped across his face to offer the idea of privacy. Feet nudge his beneath the table and he gives Bucky a tap in return.

_It’s okay._

The conversation continues over his head for a few minutes more before he hears the scrape of a chair and Bucky’s easy goodbye. Steve picks himself up from the table and stifles a yawn, giving a single wave before falling into step with Bucky and heading out the door. There’s a slight breeze as they walk the short distance to their dorm, clouds moving overhead and bringing in the rain that was forecast for the morning, air humid and warm. He still has one more reading to get done before he can call it a night and he knows Bucky was in the middle of a paper when they left to eat, so he tries not to rub his eyes too obviously as they wander into their room and flick on the lights, setting up at their respective study spaces.

But Bucky notices, of course he does, tosses a pen cap at Steve’s head and tries to innocently ask how many pages Steve has left to read.

“I don’t know, Buck. I need to get through the chapter, it’ll probably be at least an hour.” He flips open the textbook in question and leafs through the pages. “Yeah, about fifty pages.”

Bucky makes a show of huffing as if _he’s_ the one being inconvenienced, “But I’m tired, Steve, and I want a cuddle before we go to bed.” Steve turns to look at him and sees that he’s rolled over onto his back on the bed, staring at Steve from upside down and batting his eyelashes at him like that will do anything to sway Steve’s mind. “Are you sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m sure,” Steve plops down in his chair and tugs the book onto his lap, reading over the first line before he bites his lip and stares at the ceiling. “But,” he hedges. “I can probably afford to just skim some of the pages, get it done faster.”

A happy noise comes from the direction of Bucky’s bed, followed by the creaking of springs as Bucky resettles and gets to his own work, knowing he has to finish in the same time as Steve, if not before. Truthfully, Steve knows that without Bucky around to needle him he’d probably spend most nights buried in a book or pulling himself in too many directions with projects and papers and tutoring and clubs. And he still does all of those things, just not all at once, and Bucky makes sure there’s plenty of fun and down time woven in as well. It’s a nice system, Steve helping Bucky focus and Bucky getting Steve out of his head.

He sneaks a glance at Bucky from the corner of his eye and smiles at what he sees, loose limbs and furrowed brow, pen bitten between his teeth as his fingers tap away at the keyboard. Turning back to his book, he resolves to get done as soon as possible, if only so he can pull the pen from Bucky’s lips and kiss him there instead.

~*~

Steve wakes up when the sky is still covered in milky clouds, even the moon and stars blotted out and made dark. It’s the odd hours of the morning when the night owls have gone to bed and the early birds have yet to wake and the quiet is unusual but not unwelcome, just the sound of Bucky’s even breathing to break up the night. They’re tangled together on Steve’s small bed, sheets caught at their feet and twisted awkwardly around one of Bucky’s arms, disheveled and useless and perfect. Bucky’s hair is a mess, dark brown cowlicks against the pillow, and Steve runs his fingers through it gently, smirks when Bucky mumbles something in his sleep.

“Love you,” Steve whispers, tracing over one of Bucky’s eyebrows before brushing softly over his cheek.

There’s a calm in the air and that sort of late night magic that makes everything seem fuzzy at the edges, forgiving and welcoming as if anything you do right then won’t be remembered in the morning. His fingers go back to Bucky’s hair, tangle in the soft strands while he leans down and presses a ghost of a kiss to Bucky’s lips. There’s a smile on his face when he pulls back, wide and open and so, so happy. Because it may be night and the world may be hazy and out of focus, but he knows Bucky will still be there in the morning, will be sprawled out on the too-small bed grumbling about coffee and stupid morning classes.

He’ll be just as perfect as he is right now. And he’ll still be Steve’s.

He’s not going anywhere.

Rearranging himself against Bucky’s chest, Steve settles in and pushes his palm right above Bucky’s heart, feels its gentle beating against his fingertips, steady and strong as sleep tugs at Steve again. But before it pulls him under, he turns his head into Bucky’s shoulder, steals one last kiss to the edge of Bucky’s jaw, then falls asleep with a smile painted across his lips.

~*~

“Steve, holy fuck you have to hear this,” Bucky comes up next to him like a whirlwind, eyes alight and excitement radiating from every inch of his body. Steve’s just come out of studio and he knows Bucky’s had his Russian and Revolutionary history classes earlier in the day, is used to hearing about new things Bucky’s learned on their way to have lunch before their gender studies class.

They fall into step with each other and Bucky shrugs his backpack higher on his shoulders, turns to face Steve and can’t keep the smile off his face. “You won’t believe it, what that crazy old man told us today. Like, I know he grew up in Russia but the stories he tells are unbelievable, surprises me every time. I can’t imagine knowing all the crazy stuff he does.”

Steve hums in agreement and it’s all the encouragement Bucky needs before he’s off again.

“So apparently there’s this place in the Ural Mountains in Russia, called the fucking _Mountain of Death._ Right there you know it’s not going to be a great place to go, no cheery Gone With the Wind singing montages or anything like that. What there _was_ was a group of hikers getting attacked by some strange, something; no one actually knows what it was. Internal injuries but no external, like they were hit by a car but only on the insides. Someone else had their tongue cut out. And no tracks, no other people or animals, just them and a whole lot of nothing.”

Steve scrunches his nose at the imagery, not caring to think about frozen and disfigured bodies when he’s about to go eat lunch, but it’s not the most gruesome story Bucky’s ever come up with, and it’s pretty interesting besides. That old professor certainly knows some of the craziest tales in the book.

“And there was a police report, investigation, all that, but the authorities tried to cover it up, didn’t want to create hysteria or whatever. News got out anyway, of course, it always does, but damn can you imagine being one of those officers?” He shivers a bit and shakes his head. “Scarred for life, is what I’d be.”

He carries on for a bit longer, going into some of the theories, the photographs, the opinions of experts and locals and classmates. Steve listens to every bit, takes it in and responds when Bucky stops to take a breath, keeps the conversation going until Bucky’s satisfied every angle, every piece, of the story. They’re at the cafeteria by now, moving together through the different lines and stations, Steve staying close so Bucky can finish without interruption, glaring down anyone who gives Bucky a weird look for his choice of conversation.

It’s something Steve loves to encourage, Bucky’s excitement about the world, about history, about life, and he does so every chance he gets. So when they set their trays down on the table and Bucky tangles their feet together between their chairs, he can only smile fondly into his soup when Bucky leans forward and says, “And there was this place in Siberia, too, real nasty. Even the researchers sent out to study it had to turn back, started getting sick and didn’t want to risk their skin blistering and peeling off like some of the other poor souls who’d gone there before.”

~*~

Steve’s studio is messy; it’s cluttered and brimming with pencils and papers and half-finished sketches, precarious piles of metal scraps and post-it notes stuck to nearly every available surface. Bucky calls it a hellhole, his teacher says it looks like a bomb went off, but to Steve it’s organized chaos. He knows where everything is, well, _mostly_ everything. The important things.

His desk is nearly a lost cause beneath its many layers of discarded tools and plans, but Steve is always sure to leave enough space to make it workable. There’s just enough room for his art history homework, textbook balanced open in his lap and pencil tucked behind his ear. A small, analog clock is hanging on the wall, stuck up with special hooks so it didn’t ruin the paint and meant to remind him when it’s _‘time to get the hell home and eat something’._ Bucky’s idea, of course. It currently reads half past seven and Steve’s had a granola bar and a bottle of water, knows Bucky will bring actual food when he comes to join him. It’s only a matter of time. He could probably do a countdown if he wanted, since he has Bucky’s protective tendencies basically down to a science. It would be irritating if Steve didn’t know with absolute certainty that Bucky only did it out of love, not an inch of condescension in his body.

“You’re a pain in my ass, Rogers, you know that?”

Bucky announces his entrance with an exaggerated huff, drops his backpack to the ground and holds the plastic bag of takeaway out to Steve. It’s a flurry of movement that bursts into the small space, gives it life in the way papers rustle and bits of metal knock together in a clink and clank before an inevitable clatter. Bucky looks sheepishly at the destruction.

“And you’re a bull in a china shop,” Steve replies, sweeping the mess out of the way with his foot. “It’s good I work with metal and not glass.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t try to recreate the Leaning Tower of Pisa everywhere…”

Steve ignores Bucky’s grumbling, not interested in picking up this old argument again, not now at least, there’ll be plenty of time to bicker about his organizational habits in the future. Besides, there’s homework to do and food to eat, all before the clock strikes twelve and Bucky drags him back to their room to sleep. He turns back to his papers and takes his pencil out from behind his ear, twirls it in his fingers once until it settles comfortably. More rustling and grumbling follows Bucky’s path around the room, the takeaway placed by Steve’s feet and Bucky’s backpack half-kicked, half-pushed across the room to a small hollow carved into all the chaos. Bucky’s Spot. The only space Steve keeps clean and clear and spotless at all times, without exception.

“You got a lot to do?” Bucky asks, one hand on the back of Steve’s chair as he peers down at what he’s doing.

Steve continues the answer he’s writing, hums for a moment before saying, “Not too much, no. But reading takes forever.”

In Steve’s peripheral’s, Bucky nods, “Yeah, pretty the same with me. But maybe if we get done soon enough we can watch some more of that show, yeah? The Russian version of Pooh Bear you love almost as much as me?”

He knows Bucky is batting his eyes and pouting his lips so Steve doesn’t bother to turn around, just huffs out a tiny laugh and rolls his eyes. “We’ll see how it goes.”

“Perfect,” Bucky grins, already knowing he’s won. Because as much as Steve may bristle and sting on the outside, it’s embarrassingly obvious how easily Bucky gets his way. Steve just loves him too much, is the problem, or at least it would be if Steve wasn’t positive Bucky was as stupidly in love with him, too.

He feels a thumb brush over the back of his neck and then the smooth, dry press of lips, tender warmth against the top of his spine where a solid black heart is inked into his skin. It’s a simple thing, a kind of offhand farewell as Bucky leaves Steve’s side and goes to settle down in his spot across the studio, but it tightens Steve’s chest and makes his whole body flood with warmth.

The tick tock of the clock feels loud in Steve’s ears as he counts the seconds, pencil tapping against the pages of his homework with an unusual energy. The door to the hallway is shut and the room suddenly feels too small, Steve’s skin stretched and prickling, bottom lip bitten between his teeth and his entire body thrumming until he can hardly focus on the words in his textbook. Finally, he snaps.

He sets his pencil down and stands, chair pushing back and rolling a few sad inches across the floor, forgotten as Steve takes the few quick strides necessary to have him across the room. There’s only a moment for Bucky to look up at him with wide, questioning eyes before Steve drops down and plants himself firmly in Bucky’s lap, gets his fingers into that thick, brown hair and tugs him in, crashes their mouths together and swallows the surprised sound that slips from Bucky’s lips.

It’s sudden and unexpected, consuming in the way it makes Steve’s whole body feel hot, his hips jerk where they’re pressed to Bucky’s, thighs circled around Bucky’s waist. Disoriented, is one word for what he feels, needy is another. When Bucky finally catches up to reality, Steve can’t help the moan he muffles against Bucky’s lips, new found heat racing up his spine as Bucky’s arms wrap around him and pull him close. It’s lips and teeth and desperation, Steve’s fingers tight in Bucky’s hair and Bucky’s approving hums sounding low in his ears.

The scrape of stubble scratches his palm as he moves one hand down to cup Bucky’s face, stroke a thumb along his jawline and feel the cut and drag of it as they move together, feel the slight strain in Bucky’s neck as he reaches up to meet him. Steve doesn’t know how much time passes, but the kisses eventually turn soft, less desperate. It’s cloying heat that settles in his stomach, fills him to the very tips of his fingers and has his pupils blown wide as he looks down at Bucky’s face.

They’ve somehow ended up on the floor, Bucky flat on his back and Steve seated on his hips, a small scene of destruction all around them. They take just a moment to survey the damage before a beautiful, breathy laugh has Steve looking down at Bucky again, marveling at the way his eyes are bright and dark all at once, an intoxicating mixture of love and fondness and want in their depths. His lips are bitten cherry red and curved up in a smile, a temptation Steve doesn’t even try to resist as he leans down and kisses them again, and again, until Bucky’s pulling up off the floor to follow him and they’re once again lost in one another.

A sharp knock on the door is what brings them back to reality the second time. Steve’s hands are fisted in Bucky’s shirt, palms going flat as he pushes Bucky down to lever himself up, poised in a very compromising position as he waits for whoever’s on the other side.

There’s another knock, followed by a, “Steve?”

It’s Taylor, one of Steve’s friends in the studio, and although he feels a slight twinge of guilt far, far in the back of his brain, Steve doesn’t take his eyes from Bucky’s as he replies, “Busy.”

His voice is deep, a hoarseness to it that surprises even him, but it makes Bucky bring a hand up to his mouth to muffle a groan into his palm. Taylor chuckles knowingly on the other side of the door, “I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

Steve doesn’t bother responding, just keeps staring down at Bucky in awe, wondering how he ever got so lucky. It’s like getting to hang out with the Mona Lisa, do homework with Starry Night, a constant source of beauty and inspiration at his side. But Bucky is more than a painting could ever be, because he’s living and breathing and constantly changing, becoming more and more precious every day, and because he _chooses_ to be with Steve. He’s nothing Steve has bought, acquired, or created. He is the greatest of gifts, given freely and reciprocated in kind. Steve can’t even fathom the love he feels for the man below him, and it scares him, sometimes.

But now, in this moment, he lets it take him, carry him over the edge and into the soft warmth Bucky brings, lips pressed together and hands tangling so their tattoos align, Bucky’s free hand reaching up to touch the solid heart that he loves so much, the second to be branded with his name.

~*~

The first touches of spring are in the air, evident in the way trees are starting to push out green and the beds are being prepared for the first flowers of the season. It’s warmer, too, something Steve is infinitely thankful for as they sit outside waiting for the cinema to open its doors. They’re showing an independent film that Bucky’s been wanting to see on the big screen for ages. Entry is on a first come first serve basis, so they’ve arrived two hours early to ensure their spot in line. And it’s a good thing, too, since there are already thirty people ahead of them and the small cinema only seats sixty-five. Hopefully they’ll still have a prayer of getting good seats.

As far as Steve can tell, the movie’s about new technology gone wrong, the barrier between dreams and reality ripping at the seams. The summary he’d read online hadn’t made much sense and Bucky’s explanation hadn’t helped either. And according to reviews, there’s a high chance he still won’t understand it even after the credits roll.

“The scene changes are amazing, so is the rest of the animation, really,” Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder and ducks down to give him a wide smile. “It should entertain you in that aspect, at least, if you just sit and appreciate the artistry.”

“I’m sure it’ll be good, Buck. Thought provoking.”

Bucky snorts. “That’s just a fancy way of saying confusing. But yeah, it’ll be that too I suppose.”

Spring might be settling in but winter is still holding on at the edges, clinging with tendrils of icy wind and gray smudges against the sun. A shiver goes up Steve’s spine at a particularly strong gust and he feels Bucky step closer behind him, angling his body so he’s blocking Steve from the wind, heat radiating chest to back like a furnace. And it’s Bucky’s day, Bucky’s outing, so Steve leans back and lets himself be wrapped in Bucky’s arms, pushing past the twinge of guilt he feels when Bucky jerks slightly in surprise.

PDA isn’t something he enjoys, in fact he tends to avoid it entirely. To him, what he and Bucky have is meant for them, what they do is their business alone. He wants privacy and intimacy and the ability to hold what they have close to his heart, safe and precious where no one can ruin it or take it away.

And Bucky respects that, respects his beliefs and opinions on the matter, but Steve still knows how hard it is for him to hold back, how hard it is for him to keep his hands to himself when all he wants to do is pick Steve up and spin him around and show him off to the entire world. That’s how he is, and it’s one of the many reasons why Steve loves him. It’s also the main reason why he tamps down his reasoning and lets himself relax, bring down some of his walls and let Bucky cover them up, smooth them over until he feels warm and safe and secure no matter where they are.

He pushes further back into Bucky’s arms, until they’re flush together and he feels the bump of Bucky’s chin against the back of his head, feels arms tighten around him and the last cool nip of winter fade. He pulls one of his hands from his pockets, reaches up and slips it beneath one of Bucky’s own. Conversations spin on around them as Bucky squeezes his fingers gently, hides a smile in the curve of his neck. They stay tangled together, Steve held close and kept warm as they wait the remaining hour for the doors to open, Bucky talking softly into his ear to pass the time.

And if the movie starts and Steve starts to feel his eyes start to droop, long nights of homework and studying catching up to him like a train, then that’s no one’s fault but his own. But if his head ends up on Bucky’s shoulder, well, that’s nobody’s fault at all. Because Bucky holds him close and breathes him in, presses a kiss to the top of his head and makes sure not to jostle him the rest of the movie, oblivious to the quiet smile on Steve’s face that gently, trustingly, melts into sleep.

 

  


End file.
